


Abluvion

by kitashvi



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, I can't grammar in this one, M/M, brief mentions of violence, implied sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitashvi/pseuds/kitashvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s the story:</p><p>In the beginning, there is a boy who lives in the shadow of a man who is the greatest shinobi under the sun. This man is the glory of the village and his son tells people that he wants to grow up to be just like his father.</p><p>(Here’s the problem: the boy is you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abluvion

**Author's Note:**

> _I don’t even know what this is, but I’m just gonna leave it here. I scrapped it about a dozen times over (which can be either the worst or the best feeling while writing, depending), and I don’t quite like it, but I’m weirdly fond of it._
> 
>  
> 
> _Props to albino-yaoi, who’s seen at least two versions of this and puts up with my pestering._
> 
>  
> 
> _kit_

Here’s the story:

In the beginning, there is a boy who lives in the shadow of a man who is the greatest shinobi under the sun. This man is the glory of the village and his son tells people that he wants to grow up to be just like his father.

(Here’s the problem: the boy is you.)

The soles of your feet are the color of the floor is the color of the shirt the med-nin peels off his chest, and your sun has set and everything is so dark. The shadows spell out “ANBU” and Jiraiya says, “Don’t do it, kid,” and you don’t listen because “You’re not my father” tastes like the right thing to say. They hand you a vest and a mask and there’s something ecstatic about being the hand of a god and you feel _alive_.

(Here’s the problem: you are not living.)

-

Here’s the story:

In a far-off land, there is a boy who bleeds to death pinned beneath a thousand tons of rock to save his teammates. They live to fight another day and he dies happy, knowing he sacrificed himself for his friends. For his village. Rin carves his name into the Konoha memorial herself.

(Here’s the problem: that boy is not you.)

You look in the mirror and he looks back, you are all that’s left of the body and the Uchiha want to burn him out of you, and you want to let them. Their compound is three miles away but you can taste the smoke of his pyre in your apartment, rubbing your feet over the stains in the hardwood. Their newest boy is prodigy instead of prodigal and he stares at you through the mask you wore when you were his age, takes Obito’s place so seamlessly you have to visit his grave to reassure yourself he really died.

(Here’s the problem: he is not dead.)

-

Here’s the story:

Once upon a time, there is boy who has edges so sharp they slash up everything he touches and how do you tell a kid that shit like that isn’t his fault? You wanted him to be everything you’re not; when the shadows told him “ANBU,” you said “No,” you knew that he was lost but you never thought he’d find himself a thousand miles away from home.

(Here’s the problem: this boy is just like you.)

You are like every moon in his life, hanging over his head and you know when he shoots for you, it’ll be a Chidori through your chest and the burn of a debt being paid. You watch every red-eyed comet in the night and feel his eyes on you.

(Here’s the problem—)

When he comes for you, it is hot skin sliding across cool sheets and thin limbs wrapping around your torso. He kisses you and it tastes like ozone and the hand he runs up your ribs burns like lightning. That’s the hand he put through Naruto’s chest and you arch under it, know the Chidori would hurt less than this.

His skin tastes like pyre smoke and his eyes are the color of your hardwood floor, you hiss _I’m sorry_ into the skin of neck and his nails dig into your shoulder blades, _I missed you_ because it tastes like the right thing to say, _Forgive me_ like he can burn the penance right out of you. He forgives you with his lips and his teeth, fingers tracing his own apologies into the divots of your hips and you are helpless in his wake.

In the end, he slides under your sheets like he’s always belonged there.

In the end, you let him, because perhaps he always did.

In the end, you think of lands far away and beginnings, and you think, maybe, you’ve finally gotten something right.


End file.
